Fighting for What's Mine
by Lady Sam Mallory
Summary: In S11, E8, we find out that Dean went on his first hunt before he was 9 years old. John takes Dean on his first hunt with a fellow hunter. What was supposed to be a cake walk turns potentially deadly very quickly. This fic also helps establish why John chooses to work alone.


**Fighting for What's Mine**

 **Author** : Lady Sam Mallory

 **Disclaimers:** Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.

 **Special Thanks to:** My exceptional Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. You are truly my Conductor of Light. Thank you for over 30 years of friendship and fandoms.

For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.

 **Warnings:** H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence and usually a bit of colorful language.

 **Spoilers:** None.

 **Author's Comments:** This story takes place when Dean and Sam are children learning to hunt from their father. The end isn't canon, but since we don't really know why, it's my take on why they manage to make it out of so many scrapes alive.

* * *

"Sammy, you know why, so stop asking about it," Dean barks, throwing gear in his bag. "Come on, man. Dad's gonna be here any second, and if I'm not ready to go…"

Sammy pushes wavy brown curls out of his eyes and gazes worriedly up at his brother. "But, Dean, I got a bad feeling, and who's gonna watch your back?"

Dean pauses with a heaving sigh and turns towards his baby brother. "Look, Sammy. Dad's gonna be there. You know he won't let anything happen to us, right?"

Sammy nods his hair bouncing every which way causing Dean to smile, which promptly fades when his brother starts in once again.

"But, it's your first _real_ hunt with a _real_ monster. Everything's always been drills before, 'cept that one time Dad let you sit in the car," Sam unnecessarily reminds his older brother, his eyes wide with concern.

"Sammy, I'm going. End of discussion. Now run it down for me," Dean orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Sam glares up at his older brother but knows that there's no changing a Winchester's mind, especially when they feel they're right. At best, they may hear you out, but you're mostly just wasting your breath.

"Come on, Sam. This is important," Dean reminds him, sounding exactly like their father, who has constantly run them through these drills since forever.

Sam rolls his big brown eyes and begins to rattle off the rules, tapping each fact on his small fingers. Tap. "Don't answer the phone 'less I know it's you. You'll call, hang up and call back, so it has to ring once first." Tap. "Lock the door." Tap. "Windows and shades closed. " Tap. "And I hafta stay in the room. No 'ceptions."

The final tap is punctuated by a long sigh causing Dean to smile at his brother's recitation. They've done this so many times with their father that it's almost second nature.

"That's right. No exceptions. That's the word, Sammy. Exceptions," Dean emphasizes the first syllable both times to teach his brother the correct pronunciation before continuing.

"What else?" Dean questions, his eyes somber with how momentous the occasion is. He's been begging his dad to take him on an actual hunt since he was six and could field strip a weapon almost as fast as his father.

Sammy pouts but stops when he realizes it will get him exactly nowhere. He finishes the rules, his voice sounding a little put upon, "You'll only be gone a few hours, and I call Pastor Jim or Caleb if you're not back by morning. Numbers are in my bag, and I still don't like this, just so you know."

"You've made your opinions very clear, Sammy," Dean states emphatically as their father knocks twice and announces himself before he uses the key to enter.

Dean levels a sawed off at him just the same. "Password?" He demands, his eyes flashing, looking his father over to see if he can detect any minute changes. Can never be too careful.

"Gawain," John replies on a sigh, proud that his son remembered to ask, yet longing for a time when it's no longer necessary.

Dean lowers the shotgun with a nod and a grin before stowing it in his bag with the rest of his gear.

John crosses the kitchenette to move into the living space where his sons are talking. He glances at the duffel Dean has draped over his shoulder approvingly knowing that it's stocked with the appropriate equipment because Dean follows orders. He turns toward Sam, completely aware the boy isn't happy with being left behind.

"I think we need a new password, Sammy. I know you love the King Arthur stories we read together, but maybe we can branch out a bit," John says with a smile, as he bends down to eye level with his younger son.

"But I love those stories," Sammy insists with an innocent smile. "There's dragons to slay and quests, like what you do when you p'tect us from all the monsters."

"Protect, Sam. I protect you from the monsters because that's my job, son. Today's Dean's turn and when you get a bit older, you'll be right there with us, okay?" John tries to smooth out the worry he sees in his younger son's eyes.

John ruffles his hair and draws him into a big hug. "Get through the rundown?" He questions, glancing up at his older son as he withdraws from the hug and pushes up to his full height.

Dean nods affirmatively, "Yes, sir, and he did it perfect. He's also had dinner and his bath, so we should be good to go, sir."

John looks over his boys, wishing things could be different for them. Normal.

He looks down at Sammy, his eyes hard once again, reminding himself how important this is to their survival. "If something breaks in?"

Sam looks up at him with equally serious eyes, "My bag stays next to me all the time. If something comes, I grab it and run," he pauses slightly before adding "until…I get big 'nuff to fight."

John's pride rushes through him at that last pronouncement, and he places his hand on the boy's shoulder, looking down at him with amusement dancing in his eyes, before saying, "And who decides when you're big enough, Sam?"

"You do, sir," Sam answers immediately, leaning into his father's hand, before the man turns away and heads for the door.

"Come on, Dean. Walt's waiting on us. It's a single strike, so we'll be back soon. You know what to do, Sammy, so look alive," John orders as they walk out the door, which Sam promptly locks before releasing a pent up breath.

* * *

"Ok, Walt, run through it one more time for me," John insists as they drive farther from the diner where they met Walt, farther away from Sammy. A knot lodges in his chest. Please, God, don't let anything happen to my boys.

Walt interrupts his train of thought. "Come on, Winchester. We've been over it. It's a cake walk. One werewolf cut off from the pack. Hell, you brought your damn kid for fuck sake. We could do this one with our eyes closed," Walt rants, rolling his eyes at John's seemingly over-attention to detail.

John scowls and growls out, "How 'bout you humor me seeing as things have a way of going sideways when you're not prepared. Dean and I have gone over the property specs from the county surveyor's office and studied the blueprints for the barn from the building permits, so as long as they didn't make too many changes, we're good to go."

Walt shakes his head disgustedly. "I've been hunting a time or two, Johnny boy. Just saying. It's a single werewolf squatting in an old barn just outside of town. Near as I can tell, he got separated from his pack and now we're going to separate him permanently," the older man finishes with a chuckle before smacking John on the arm as if they've been buddies for years. "You act all high and mighty, Winchester, with all your gone over the specs talk, but you're just like the rest of us lowly hunters."

Dean's eyes widen at the way this man treats his father. He and Sammy know better than to be that disrespectful. While their Dad's never spanked them or laid hand to them in anger, he always, always demands respect and gives it back in return.

John turns in his seat a little, his expression disgusted, before addressing Walt once again, "Look, Walt. I'm not questioning your abilities. I'm sure you're a fine hunter, but I just need to know what we're walking into here. The more prepared for an op, the greater the chance of success."

"Hunts are dangerous, Johnny boy. Kinda why my kids are at home instead of on this little field trip. Walt Jr.'s helping his mama get the kids to bed as we speak," Walt sneers, causing Dean to downright bristle waiting for his father's response.

John inhales deeply in what his son recognizes as his game face when dealing with stupidity. "Some of us don't have that luxury," he snaps before turning back to check on Dean in the backseat.

"Look, Walt, you came to me with this hunt, not the other way around. If you don't want to do your part, just turn the car around and take us back to the diner where you picked us up," John dictates calmly, his eyes taking in all the landmarks along the route. "Dean…"

Walt interrupts him when he asks the boy, "Where's your mama that she'd let you come out here like this, boy?"

John's eyes narrow, but he's proud of his son when he follows protocol with his answer.

"My mom's dead, sir," Dean's succinct answer startles Walt into stunned silence at his directness. His dad reminds them constantly that most people hedge around a difficult topic instead of just saying it outright, which generally puts people on edge and allows you to manipulate the situation. He turns to answer his father's earlier prompt, "Yes, sir?"

John clears his throat to hide his reaction to Walt being shut down by an eight year old and glances back over the seat. "Look here, Dean. You stay behind me, locked and loaded the whole time. You've got silver rounds in the Colt Mustang. Break it down for me, son," John commands keeping Dean's focus on him.

"Yes, sir. The Colt Mustang holds five .380 caliber rounds. We're using silver rounds, which may kill it, but not always, so we need to keep our heads. Failing the bullets, a silver blade should do the trick every time," Dean reports without hesitation. "We'll enter through the doors on the east side of the barn, so we'll be upwind to mask our scents. We clear the north side of the structure, while you clear the south. Whichever of us finds the werewolf takes him out, then we finish clearing the barn as needed and meet up at the car."

John nods, his eyes glowing with respect for his boy, "You bring your silver blade, Dean?"

"Yes, sir," Dean answers, his heart rate a little erratic now that the fight is drawing near.

"Good job, son," John commends and turns back toward the road to check their status. "We get into trouble, you get out, Dean. You got it?"

Dean pauses for a moment. His father was actually asking him a question instead of barking an order. Knowing he might catch a little hell for it, but hoping the audience will lessen the blow he asks, "Yes, sir, but what about you? I can't just leave you there."

John smiles, knowing with absolute certainty that his son's a better soldier than the man driving the car, "I'll watch after myself. If the hunt goes south, you follow protocol S1."

Protocol S1 is Dad's code for Sammy first, and we always follow it no matter what.

Dean nods his head to show his dad they're on the same page and answers aloud, "Yes, sir."

"Damn, Winchester. He sounds more like a soldier than a kid," Walt complains shaking his head with disgust at the way the man has raised his son.

John ignores him knowing he's done what was needed to provide the greatest chance of survival for his kid in a brutal world. Dean's smile shows that he'll take that as a compliment.

Silence reigns as the car makes the turn off, and Dean sees the dilapidated barn in the distance. The car rolls to a stop and Dean gets out, maintaining position directly behind and slightly to the right of his father just as he's been taught.

He takes a deep breath and continues along that way as Walt motions that he's circling around back to get a better position on the werewolf.

John uses hand signals to remind Dean they are full silent and moving out.

* * *

The barn creaks with the wind as they step inside its crumbling walls. Dean checks left and right, his father's training nearly automatic as he clears the space around them.

Something doesn't feel right, but he's a kid, so he ignores his instincts and follows his father deeper into the battered structure. He tries to quiet the breath that saws in and out of his lungs before realizing that it's only loud inside his own head. His dad would definitely signal if he were making that much noise.

Dean glances toward the back door on the west wall and sees Mr. Walt crossing the threshold as they move as one unit toward the north wall where they will start their search in the tack room.

John stealthily moves on silent feet toward the north side of the barn, keeping an ear on [Office2] his son as he clears each section of the structure like they used to clear village shacks in 'Nam.

Pushing open the door to the tack room, John takes small steps keeping his gun close in to his chest to maintain control of the weapon and not give any adversary the advantage. He squares his step to get a clear view of the room looking for danger points and clearing the space behind the door.

He nods to Dean to let him know that this room is clear before moving on to the next. The broken down wash stall remains on his right side as he effectively sweeps the area keeping his head on a swivel. Determining that there is no threat, John continues forward.

He signals Walt to clear the former grooming area and starts toward the stalls on the opposite side of the barn, having completed his initial search pattern. Crossing the floor steadily, Dean still at his back maneuvering quietly, he takes the first stall which is also empty.

He's beginning to doubt the intel on this op, when the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up, and he knows something isn't right. He signals Dean to move into the corner on his left within the stall as he's cleared it and knows it will be safe. Dean complies without question, and he turns towards the second stall in time to see a flicker of glowing yellow eyes out of the corner of his own.

"Two o'clock, Dean. Stand firm. I've got him," John whispers to the boy, who nods his compliance as his father pushes into the space where he's seen the werewolf. Raising his weapon, he sights on the shape before him with the glowing yellow eyes and fires twice in rapid succession.

"Threat down, Dean. Stay alert," John announces, turning towards Walt only to see another form on the man's six. "Walt, behind you," he shouts as Walt turns and shoots the werewolf behind him. "Keep clearing the space, Walt. Intel was bad. Stay on me, Dean," John orders, turning once again to sweep through the next set of stalls.

Dean follows orders and stays right in position as he two more werewolves pour into the barn through the back doors, pushing the hunters toward the front of the barn. Three more drop down from the hay loft, causing Walt to leap back in surprise. "Shit," he yells. "Time to go, John!"

Walt races for the front door and begins firing a hail of bullets into the middle of the barn, hoping to hit something before throwing himself through it. Glancing back, he notices John and Dean have been cut off from both exits and Dean is down. He pauses, debating whether he should continue toward the car, when a werewolf races out the door and barrels into him, claws slashing.

Yelling out, he manages to roll clear, shoot it with his remaining silver bullets, and make it to the car, which he starts and drives away. It wasn't his fault that John was stupid enough to bring his damn kid. They were outnumbered, and there was nothing they could do. He wraps a towel from the seat around his bleeding arm and continues down the dirt road toward home.

* * *

John calmly assesses the situation before opening fire on the two near the back door, putting them both down with double taps.

Dean fires two rounds at the wolf that circled around behind them from his position on the floor, catching the wolf in the chest and dropping him. He scrambles to his feet with difficulty, a burning pain tearing through his side which he ignores.

He turns his back to his father so they can cover more ground, while he continues to assess the situation. Five down, two to go, that he's seen anyway.

John fires a third shot at a female who's closing in on Dean, only to be thrown through the decayed stall wall by a male werewolf that came out of nowhere.

"Dean! Get out," he yells as he comes up on one knee with his silver blade at the ready. A female werewolf dives into him with the force of a Mack truck and John controls the roll, bringing the blade neatly into its heart where it falls dead in a heap on the floor next to him.

"Not an option, Dad," Dean screams before taking aim and shooting once again, dropping the wolf that threw his father. His feet leave the floor when he's grabbed from behind and pounded into the stall wall in front of him. The air leaves his body and he's left gasping, his gun nowhere he can reach.

"Dean!" John yells crossing the barn, his silver knife cutting a swath through anything that dares get in his way.

Dean's thoughts roll to Sammy as he strikes out at the weight on top of him with his knife, hoping to gain some leverage against the beast on top of him. She slashes at his left side, as he changes his grip on the blade and stabs the she wolf in the chest, her wail nearly as agonizing as the burning in his left side. She falls forward, her head banging into his smaller one as she goes down. Dean manages to push her aside as he tries to shake off the muzziness that wraps around him, but with his breath gone and energy waning, he loses consciousness.

John turns as the last werewolf jumps him and damn near cuts its head off in his fury.

"Dean?" He questions as he checks the surroundings around him. The boy was just here. He'd seen that she wolf slam him into the stall wall before he disappeared. What the hell? He realizes he needs to calm down and think while sweeping the flashlight beam back and forth in the stall.

There. Dean's shoe. Suddenly, he can breathe again.

John steps over the body of the nearly decapitated wolf to pull the dead thing away from his son. She's dead and he wishes he could resurrect her and kill her for what she's done to him. Looking around at the carnage, he sees nothing but blood and bodies.

His son lay there white as a sheet, but his chest still rises and falls. How much of the blood that covers him actually belongs to him?

"Dean?" John tries to revive his unconscious boy. "Dammit, Dean. Wake up," he orders, though his pleas fall on deaf ears. Carefully, John folds Dean into his arms. From what he can tell, most of the werewolf blood is on the floor next to his boy on the opposite side of his wound.

He needs to get him back to the motel and given the amount of blood there isn't much time to spare. Kicking through the back door of the barn, he spies a vehicle that must have belonged to the one of the wolves.

Shielding Dean with his body, he uses the butt of his gun to break the glass and lays his broken son on the seat, then slides the boy across to the passenger side as he takes his place behind the wheel.

He hotwires the car, slams it into gear and races toward the motel where he will be able to tend to his boy.

* * *

John pulls Dean from the front passenger seat and cradles him in his arms. "Never again, dammit. You know better, John. You always use your own damn intel, "John mumbles, working his way toward the room.

He knocks twice on the door and announcing himself, before using the key.

Sam hears a knock at the door and moves to the window near the back of the room just in case it's not his father.

"Password's Gawain. It's me, Sammy and your brother's hurt bad. Close and lock the door and then I need your help, kiddo. Grab the kit on your way," John orders, gently laying Dean on one of the double beds.

"Yes, sir," Sam answers racing for their provisions bag. Sam hands his father the fully stocked military grade first aid kit before turning towards the bathroom. "I'll get the washcloths and the ice bucket," he informs the man, unable to take his eyes off his broken brother. "He'll be okay, right?"

John nods while pulling the tools he'll need out of the first aid kit. "He has to be," he answers quietly, before repeating it once again louder and more firmly. "He has to be, Sammy. Let's get to work."

Sammy washes his brother's face with gentle strokes, the water in the plastic ice bucket turning pink as he rinses the washcloth in the warm water. They've done this several times for their father after a hunt, but Dean's never been hurt like this before. Sick, sure, but not this.

"Dammit, Sammy. I'm going to need you to help me stitch. There's a lot, buddy," John winces as he pulls the material away from the wound on his child's left side. There are several deep claw marks that have ripped open the skin cleanly. Grabbing a suture kit from the first aid kit open on the bed, he passes one to Sammy.

"What if I mess up, Dad?" Sammy asks, his voice suddenly small in the room.

John sympathizes with his son's plight, "You've practiced this. Just do it like you learned it, Sammy, and Dean will be fine. Remember when you cut your arm climbing that fence with your brother?"

Sammy nods, his eyes huge and brown in his small face.

"What did your brother tell you when he was stitching it up?" John asks his little trooper.

"Chicks dig scars," Sam dutifully replies with a big smile on his face. "Dean's gonna be super mad when he sees what happened to his favorite jacket."

John huffs out a small laugh amidst the stress of the situation. "He sure is, but we'll get him another one. He earned it tonight," he agrees before he preps the wounds with alcohol and begins stitching. "You take care of his right arm. See the gash there?"

Sammy nods and begins making perfect little stitches just as he practiced on what Dean and he called the stitch cloth. He ties each one, flinching a little at the blood dots from the needle.

"Are we hurting him, Daddy?" Sam asks, his eyes filled with tears that he might hurt his favorite person in the world.

Johns shakes his head before answering, "No, son, he's unconscious, so we gotta move as fast as we can, so we can get finished before he wakes up. I can't give him anything with the head injury."

Sam continues to work with hesitant looks at his father and a bit of anger in his eyes. "What happened, Dad? Dean was s'posed to be safe."

John sighs and considers how much to tell his son. He's never lied to the boy before, so he opts for the truth, "Remember, we went through the prep work, and there was one werewolf?"

Sammy nods before answering aloud, "Yes, sir?"

"Well, we got bad intel and there were more like eight," John answers, moving to the next gash, his face drawn in concentration. He glances over at Sam's stitching to make sure he's handling it.

"Nice job, Sam. So don't worry because your brother's going to be fine," John reassures him.

Sam pushes the needle through one last time, wincing slightly at the thought that he's doing this to his big brother but knowing that he needs it. Tying off the knot, he snips the thread with the small first aid scissors and sets them aside. Then turns to look at the cut on Dean's forehead.

"Think this needs stitches, Daddy?" He gently pushes Dean's head to the side to show his father the wound pattern.

John glances up from his stitch work on Dean's side. "Yeah, better stitch that up too, buddy. You okay to do that?"

"Yes, sir. I'm on it," Sam answers seriously, grabbing another preloaded suture needle and getting to work.

John curses as he moves to the next row of slashes. They're not that deep, so he's about to just rinse them out with more alcohol when he sees something that turns his vision red.

There's a bullet hole in his boy. "Sammy, hold up, son. I gotta roll your brother over and check his back," John tells him, rolling Dean gently towards his little brother so he can check for an exit wound.

He pushes a bloody hand against his forehead when he finds none. "Sam, we need to stop for a second," John tells his son, rolling Dean onto his back and reaching for some tweezers.

"What's the matter, Dad? I thought we had to hurry," Sam asks, his face bunched up with confusion.

John blows out a breath and shakes his head, "Walt panicked when he saw all the monsters and bailed. He just started shooting as he ran for the door and must have hit Dean."

Sam's eyes widen as he takes in the implications of that statement.

"I know this is scary, Sammy, but we're doing everything we can for Dean right now, and he's going to be fine," John soothes, reassuring his son as much as himself.

"But he got shot," Sam reminds his father as if he could ever forget.

John sighs and loses his temper for just a second. "Dammit, Sam, I know, but the bullet must have gone through one of the stall walls first because it's not very deep, and there's splinters in the wound tract. Hand me those tweezers, boy," he commands adjusting the lamp to offer even more light.

John offers a silent prayer that Dean stays unconscious while he removes the bullet and the splinters.

Of course, when had God ever listened to him?

* * *

Dean begins to moan before his eyes shoot open, and he attempts to sit up.

His dad's strong hands keep him firmly in place, "Don't move, Dean."

Dean sucks in a breath at the waves of pain that pound through his body. "Hurts, Dad," he whimpers on an exhaled breath. Was that his voice?

Sam places his small hand on Dean's forehead and whispers, "I'm sorry it hurts so bad, Dean, but that's cause you were shot."

Dean's eyes widen, before he gasps with the pain of it all and slurs, "That…really…sucks."

"Settle down, boy. Bullet's still in there with wood splinters all around it. It's gonna hurt like hell, but I've got to do dig it out," John tells him plaintively hoping that Dean's with it enough not to scream. "We'll give you something to bite down on, but you can't scream. We can't have the manager busting in on us, or worse calling the cops."

Dean nods his understanding and says, "I'll do my best, Dad."

"I know you will, son. Never doubted it for a minute," John states, as he starts to get his supplies ready.

Sammy hands his brother the knotted washcloth, and he places it in his own mouth, tears running down his face at the fire burning through his body.

John works quickly and can't help but be grateful when his boy passes out as he gets to the bullet.

* * *

Dean awakens to find Sammy staring down at him.

"Hi, Dean," Sammy chirps when he sees his brother's eyes are open. "Are you really awake or just fakin'?"

Dean clears his throat and tips his head from side to side taking in his surroundings. "Awake?" His voice croaks raw from disuse, "Where's Dad?"

Sammy points to a chair on the other side of the room, "He's sleeping. He's been up for days worrying 'bout you, but he finally, finally, decided to take a nap if I promised to sit and watch you, which is all I've been doing and it's kinda boring watching you sleep, Dean. You make a lot of sounds and…"

"Rambling, Sammy," Dean notes, wiggling fingers in his brother's general direction. "How long I been out?"

"Two days, but Dad says you're gonna be okay," Sam informs him, his voice taking on a serious tone.

"He's right, Sammy. I'm gonna be fine," Dean reiterates as Sammy turns to yell for his father.

John bolts up in the chair before jumping to his feet and crossing the room in three long strides to sit on the edge of the bed.

"How you feeling, Dean?" John asks, his eyes guilt ridden as he glances down at his son who could have just as easily died.

"Like I got shot and run over by a car and chewed up by a Wendigo all at the same time," Dean rasps breathing shallowly in deference to the pain in his body.

John smiles at the boy's attitude. "Dean, I never wanted this for you…" John starts only to be interrupted by his older son.

"Dad, this wasn't a choice, so it didn't really matter what you wanted. Family business. Saving people and hunting things," Dean reminds him yet again. "It wasn't your fault. Things can happen on a hunt, Dad. That's why we prep the way we do. It's our job. If we don't do it, who will?"

* * *

Three weeks later

"Dad, we've been cooped up in here for weeks," Dean complains, checking and rechecking his gear to make sure everything is present and in working order.

John looks up from his journal at his boy who apparently needs something to do.

"We're finished here, Dean. We were just biding our time so you could heal and get strong enough to help take care of your brother," John explains as he flips to another entry in his journal.

Sammy looks up from the episode of _Thundercats_ he's watching.

"Dean sure seems a lot better, Dad. So we're heading to the next hunt?" Sammy asks, not really sure what to expect from his father who hasn't been quite right since that night.

John looks back and forth between his boys. "Sam, Dean, come sit at the table," he orders closing his journal and giving them his full attention.

The boys cross the room quickly, following their father's orders, hesitation shared in the look that passes between them.

"We're going to have to make some changes in the way we do things," John starts, his tone serious and brooking no argument from either of his boys.

He looks each one in the eyes. "Dean, you did a great job on that hunt. You handled yourself admirably, and I'm proud of you," he starts holding his son's green gaze with his own.

Dean smiles, his heart full with hearing his father express pride in him. He likes the feeling and hopes to earn his praise again and again.

John Winchester does not offer false praise.

This fact makes Dean even more proud.

John sighs, knowing that Dean will not understand his next statement, "That being said, I'm not going to be taking you out on any hunts for a while."

Dean nearly comes out of the chair but manages to hold himself there with Herculean effort.

"May I ask why, sir?" Dean manages through clenched teeth, barely controlling the outburst that wants to explode from him. "You know I can help."

John smiles before answering, "I know that, but I really need to know that Sammy is safe."

Dean nods in agreement that he wants Sammy safe, but he's not sure he wants to stand down and is pretty sure that's what his father is asking.

"I'm going to need you to watch your brother for a while longer instead of joining me on the hunt. Before you go getting all pissed about it, think about this," he starts, his eyes holding the fiery gaze of Dean's green eyes.

"Your four-year old brother spent an hour elbow deep in your blood, helping me stitch you up," John informs his older son allowing him to a moment to process that information.

Dean's eyes widen at his father's next question. "Does that sound okay to you?" John finishes, his eyes flashing with emotion needing Dean to understand and desperate to keep both of his boys safe for a little longer.

Dean looks at Sammy's little face, and his anger dies in his chest. "I didn't know that. I'm sorry you had to see that, Sammy. Thanks for taking care of me," he replies patting his brother on the shoulder and knowing that for Sam he could do anything that was needed.

Dean looks at his father's haggard face and nods his understanding while he replies dutifully, "Yes, sir, I can certainly do what needs to be done."

His father needs for Sammy to get to be a little kid for a while longer. Truth be told, Dean needs the same thing for his brother.

* * *

John looks at the white witch, his eyes filled with caution and says, "This the spell?"

She nods handing over the parchment upon which it was written. "Took a while, but I found it. It's powerful magic, John Winchester. Are you sure this is what you want?"

He nods before finding his voice, "You got the juice to do it, Aria?"

She looks over the spell again debating whether she really wanted to help him. Shaking her head at her own stupidity, she smiles, "I do."

John begins to help her gather the items they will need for the summoning ritual. "Then let's get this done," John states, resigned to this course of action after nearly losing Dean a few months ago.

Lighting several candles, Aria places a ceremonial bowl on her small altar before adding several ingredients to the dish. Reaching for the bone ash, she deftly adds it to the mixture of cemetery dirt and reaper blood that John provided. She sprinkles gold ore over the ingredients before adding a pinch of mace and a dusting of hemlock.

John opens his hand and, using the blade of his knife, slices his palm over the bowl releasing his blood into the mix. Holding the crucifix in his bloody hand, he recites in Latin, "O theris tex, caleo se cai deo."

Aria drops a lit match into the bowl, and the contents flame showering the table and surrounding area in bright orange sparks.

When the smoke clears, John looks upon the thin angular face of what looks like an ordinary man.

"Interesting. Why have you summoned me, although I suppose I already know. I don't like being dragged from my work, though it was hardly surprising," the being's lilting cadence moves through the room as he waves a hand in nonchalance. "That's what happens when you're older than God," the smooth voice resonates throughout the small space making chills skitter up and down John's spine.

John swallows convulsively before answering the question, "I want to make a deal."

Death glances at John, his face grim, "What could you possibly have to offer?"

Aria steps back from the altar, Death's hushed pointed tones make her tremble.

"Fear not, child. You did not bind me but rather asked politely for a meeting. Run along now," Death chides as she scurries to obey.

John watches her leave dispassionately; this meeting of too much import.

"I get that I'm insignificant to a being such as yourself, but I hope that my offer intrigues you enough to make it worth the trip," John begins, stepping from behind the altar where the bowl still releases residual smoke.

Death gestures at him to continue, "By all means."

"I'm a hunter and a soldier. I fight against monsters and evil in a way that hopefully makes your job a little easier. Fewer monsters, fewer people being killed by them," John rationalizes trying to convince death to make a promise he sorely needs.

Death stares at him blankly waiting for the point, "And?"

John takes a breath before he continues, laying all his cards on the table, "My sons, Sam and Dean, will grow up to be hunters. Dean helped clear out a pack of werewolves several months ago, and he's only eight. I will teach them every trick in my arsenal to destroy monsters so that you have fewer people to reap."

"Why would I care?" Death states unemotionally.

John pauses, praying he does this right. "Maybe you don't, but maybe you should. They will be a force unlike any other for good. They will not stop fighting…ever, until it's done. There are so many evils in the world that they can and will extinguish," John finishes unsure where to go from here.

"What is it that you're asking, John?" Death inquires, intrigued by this man's audacity.

John inhales deeply before plunging right into the deep end, "Keep them alive and they'll forge through it all, every battle, every war against everything out there."

Death pretends to ponder for a moment before turning towards John, "I see. So immortality?"

"God no," John breathes out in horror at the idea. "I want them to live, hunting monsters and saving people for as long as they can, but not forever. I just want you to give them a fighting chance to accomplish all they can in the world."

Death nods his head in contemplation. "Hmm," he sighs. "The spell would have allowed you to bind me to your will, John. Why not use it?"

"That's not the man I am or who I'm raising my sons to be. I needed to know that you would do this for them, not because you were made to do so," John answers honestly.

Death's mouth thins out as he considers John's answer. "Very well, John Winchester. I will do as you've asked, because you asked. I will honor the deal," Death draws John's focus to him by lifting his hand and saying sternly, "Do not attempt this spell again, or I will strike you dead where you stand."

John nods as he answers in the most respectful tone, "Yes, sir, and thank you."

Before he can draw his next breath, the room is silent and empty, Death having moved on to darken another door.

The End


End file.
